


All That Glitters

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Glitter has great forensic potential.





	1. Chapter 1

“Please tell me you did not call me out for a car wreck, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock stood just outside the police tape, eyeing the crumpled front end of a mid-size family saloon car a few yards away.

“Could you keep it down?” Lestrade replied. “There are still people trying to sleep around here.”

Sherlock scoffed, picking up the police tape to allow John underneath it. “Not likely.”

He had a point. With the myriad flashing lights and overall nearby bustle, you’d have to be the world’s deepest sleeper not to be awake nearby. Even at three o’clock in the bloody morning, the peanut gallery lined up in their pyjamas and coats.

“Cheers,” John muttered, ducking under the tape with Sherlock following after. He nodded to Greg, who walked towards the car.

“We got the call around two a.m. Someone heard a crash, saw the car, et cetera--”

“No skid marks,” Sherlock interrupted. “You mustn’t be thinking suicide, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes. I’m getting to that, thanks.”

“No need. I’ll get to it myself.” Sherlock waved him away, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

John trotted to catch up, muttering to Sherlock, “Was that really necessary?”

“This is obviously a waste of my time already, so why allow more of it to be wasted?” He sidled up to the car, shining his flashlight into the driver’s side. “Oh.”

“What?” John asked as he tried to see around Sherlock’s bloody giant coat.

“John?” Sherlock tugged and prodded at the corpse. “Check the bonnet for me. Tell me if it’s warm.”

John did as Sherlock asked. “Hmm,” he grunted, calling to Sherlock. “It’s cold.”

“Just as I thought.”

“Yeah,” Greg interrupted, walking up to the car. “I would have mentioned if you had given me the chance.”

“Well, now you don’t have to.” Sherlock gave Greg the shark grin before turning back to his work.

John got out his own flashlight, doing his best to peer around Sherlock as he circled to the driver’s side. “What has you interested all of a sudden? Oh.”

The man behind the wheel looked normal enough--middle-aged, white, not a fitness icon but in good shape for his age, either he dyed his hair or hadn’t started going grey yet--but the front of his shirt shone with fuchsia glitter.

“Why is there glitter all down his front?” John asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Sherlock unbuckled the man’s belt.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock gestured towards the man’s waistline. “There’s glitter on his shirt but not his trousers.”

Oh. Of course. How could John have been so obtuse. What a perfectly reasonable justification for opening a dead man’s trousers.

Sherlock huffed, his head cocking, and John just knew that he rolled his eyes. He gestured towards the waistline again. “There has to be a reason. What happened to it? Did he eat it?”

Sherlock peered over his shoulder like he expected an answer, but John knew better than to give one.

So, Sherlock went back to work, fishing the man’s shirt from his trousers to reveal more glitter. “There we are. He had his shirt untucked when he got the glitter on him, and from the pattern, I’d say he was seated.”

He fished in the man’s pockets, pulling out a wallet, which he handed to John, and a mobile.

“Logan Davidson,” John read. “Born nineteen-seventy-four. There’s a picture of him with a woman and two children, a handful of credit cards, and twenty… five pounds, all in five-pound notes. Nothing remarkable.” John’s ears perked at the sound of a phone unlocking, and he looked up to find Sherlock holding the index finger of the dead man to his mobile.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s efficient.” He started scrolling as he popped the boot and pointed. “Check the body, John.”

As John set to work, he heard Lestrade ask Sherlock, “Any theories?”

“A few,” Sherlock mumbled before flinging open the boot.

Once he finished checking the body, John joined them at the back of the car. “It wasn’t the crash that killed him; that’s for sure. Looks like asphyxiation. Alcohol poisoning, maybe? His car reeks of it.”

“Nice theory, John. This man was poisoned, but not by alcohol. And not by accident.”

“How do you figure?” asked Lestrade.

“It’s the glitter, don’t you see? That’s the key to the whole case.”

John and Lestrade both stared, waiting for the explanation that was sure to be forthcoming. But, silly them, they forgot about the all-important stroking of the genius’s ego.

“I don’t follow,” said John.

“It’s the placement of it. It’s all down his torso, on the shirt tucked into his trousers, but not on his trousers or pants. There’s also a suit jacket on the floor of the passenger side, crumpled but folded vertically. He removed it and draped it over the passenger seat, so he was protecting it from the glitter. He also untucked his shirt to protect his trousers. Wherever he was going, he knew he would be getting glitter on him. And”--he pulled a small duffel from the boot, which had a folded shirt similar to the one the man was wearing in it--“he brought a change of clothes. He was trying to hide it from”--he grabbed the wallet from John and flashed the picture to Lestrade--“his family.”

John started to pick up the threads. “So the glitter came from--”

“A stripper.”

“Don’t some people wear glitter to bars and dance clubs?” asked Lestrade.

“In that amount?” Sherlock scoffed. “Not likely. Nor is it likely that the sheer amount on him could have come from anyone else.”

Sherlock rushed back over to the driver’s side door, shining his flashlight on the body. “The dancer would have been approximately three inches shorter than the victim.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up,” said John.

Sherlock looked affronted. “No I’m not. You can clearly tell from the patt-- Here, I’ll show you.” He dragged John to the front of the car. “Sit on the bumper.”

John sat. “Why am I doing-- What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock straddled John’s lap, pressing his chest to John’s face. “I believe a popular body part to rub on strip club patrons are the breasts, and given this is the most likely posi--”

“I get it.” John pushed up on Sherlock’s waist until he stood. “I don't need the demonstration.”

Jesus, like they really needed to provide any more so-called evidence to the Met that he and Sherlock were shagging. This was sure to keep the rumor mill going for weeks. Tamping down his panic, John took a look around. Lestrade studiously avoided looking in their direction, while Sally giggled to herself. Yep. Weeks. Christ.

“Anyway.” Sherlock tugged his clothing into place even though they hadn't been disheveled in the first place, and John thought not for the first time that it would be a hell of a lot easier to tolerate all the laughing behind his back--and to his face--if he actually got to shag the man in front of him. “The stripper was likely the last person to see him alive, and as John so astutely observed, the car was not running when it crashed. So, either he put it into neutral and never got around to starting the car, or someone pushed it. Either way, he was dead before the crash. If we can find the stripper, we find either the killer or our best witness.”

“And just how are we supposed to find this stripper?” asked Lestrade.

“Don’t you see? The glitter!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

John went back to bed for a couple hours when they got home, and by the time he woke up, Sherlock had put up a map of London on the wall and covered it with pushpins. Three of them had been connected with yarn, but the rest were scattered all over the map like a game of pick-up sticks.

John tried to make sense of it as Sherlock tapped away at his laptop, but after a moment, he had to ask, “What is all this?”

Sherlock jolted from his chair, slammed his laptop closed, and rushed over like a kid chasing the ice cream truck. “It’s the case, John.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He pointed to the center of the three connected pins. “This is where the car was, but what are the rest of them?”

Sherlock pointed to the western pin of the chain. “This is his home”--he pointed to the third pin--”and this is his work. The rest are strip clubs. Red for female performers, blue for male. I was just prioritizing them into a list when you came down.”

John boggled at the sheer number. “How many are there?”

“Twenty-four. We’ll start tonight with the first four, and if we can keep that up, we’ll need six days at the most.”

Staring at the map, John scrubbed his nails over the back of his head. Was he really going to accompany Sherlock to that many clubs? “Couldn't we split up?”

“Nonsense. You don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Oh God, not this again. “Yeah. Ta for that. You could tell me, you know.”

John could hear the eyeroll. “It’s the glitter, John.”

“All right, so I’m looking for fuchsia glitter. How hard could that be?”

“You underestimate the forensic potential of glitter, John. There are thousands of commercial glitters, so if we can find a matching glitter sample, we can confirm with reasonable certainty that the performer who wears it was there just before the man died. It’s not just fuchsia glitter, John. It’s glitter of a specific shade with a specific consistency of a specific material with a specific adhesive.”

“All right. Point taken.”

***

And so began the most expensive week of John’s life. Or rather, judging by the cost of his suits, a drop in the bucket for Sherlock. Lucky for John, Sherlock was the one paying the cover charges, but John was covering his own booze. And if he was expected to get through this week, he would be buying lots of it.

As they walked into the first club--Sherlock kitted out in an almost full suit and sticking out like a sore thumb--John asked, “How did you decide which clubs to go to?”

Sherlock took a seat by the stage, unbuttoning his coat as he went down, posture perfect. “I researched the performers. Seeing as she was working on a Wednesday, this must be her primary or sole source of income, so we can safely assume she will be working all of the next three days as the income potential is greater on the weekends. But, most clubs are closed on Sunday and Monday, so we’ll only be able to get through half of the clubs on the list before we have to be idle for two days. It is imperative that we hit the correct club as soon as possible. Therefore, cross-referencing distance from his home, work, and car with the clubs that have performers at five-foot-nine-inches who wear glitter as part of their act, I prioritized the clubs.”

John flagged down a cocktail waitress. “How did you find out about the performers? I can’t imagine these places list them on their websites.”

“No, but there are forums.”

A performer crawled over to John, giving him the come-hither eyes, and John nodded to her with a tight-lipped smile. He’d been to strip clubs before, sure, mostly for stag do’s and a few times while he was in the army, just to blow off steam, but this? This was something else entirely. With Sherlock there, regarding the women with dispassionate interest, surrounded by titillating displays, he felt like his chair was made of broken glass. He was hyper aware of his body, of his cock in his jeans, of every naked breast and denuded groin hidden by tiny scraps of fabric, of Sherlock’s fingers pressed to his own lips. He was in a place screaming at him to _GET AROUSED_ while he was meant to view it all with professional detachment. And while he was with the unarousable.

Or at least, that was what he’d always assumed. But then, what about Janine? She had gone into rather explicit detail about the so-called insatiable Sherlock Holmes. It had seemed so absurd at the time, but the particulars were just so… specific. And there Sherlock was, laser focused on the dancer on stage, thumb sweeping back and forth over his full bottom lip.

“What can I do for you lovely gentleman?”

_Oh thank God._

“Hi.” John spun to be confronted with a face full of notes tucked in and around the cleavage of a tiny black dress. He redirected his gaze up to the waitress’s face as he fished out his wallet. “A beer for me.”

She nodded to Sherlock, slicked ponytail swaying over her nape. “And for your friend?”

Sherlock waved her away.

“Caught up in the show, is he?” She flashed him a grin, brown eyes twinkling.

John shrugged, fishing a five-pound note from his wallet. “S’pose so.”

“He doesn't seem to be having a very good time.” She offered her cleavage as a handy place to put the note. “I’ve never seen someone look so serious before.”

God, this was awkward with Sherlock here. Though, who was he kidding? It would have been awkward anyway. He hadn't seen a naked woman since Mary, and he’d rather have experienced it in more intimate, private circumstances.

He tucked the note into an empty space near the base of her shoulder strap. “I think his interest is more academic than personal.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, though her face disagreed. But then came the moment John knew was coming; it always did. Her eyes widened, her blood-red mouth grinning. “Oh. I see.”

John’s grip tightened on the arms of the chair, but he had long since given up on contradicting this particular assumption.

She squeezed his bicep. “I’ll be right back, lucky boy.”

John slumped into his seat. It was bad enough fending off assumptions before Sherlock ‘died,’ when John actually cared about dating women, about trying to find someone to settle down with. But now, after the whole mess, he knew that Sherlock was the one he truly wanted, but he couldn't have him. Sherlock wasn't interested in sex or romance. At least, John didn't think he was. The only romantic attachment John had seen Sherlock make in the past six years ended up being a sham, so what other conclusion could he come to?

John startled at Sherlock’s hand on his knee.

“Have you spotted any fuchsia glitter?” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear.

John leaned back enough to get a good look at Sherlock’s face. “If you haven't, why would you expect I have?”

“I can't see everywhere at once.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Admitting human weakness, are we?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I would never do any such thing.”

“All right.” John turned back to the stage, but Sherlock remained in John’s personal space, the hand on John’s knee searing into his skin. “And no, I haven't.”

“I expect not when you’re fixating on the waitress.”

John’s mouth popped open to reply, but Sherlock was already back in his own chair, chin propped on fidgety knuckles. Just as John settled back in his chair, the waitress was back again, dropping off John’s beer with a wink.

“Cheers,” John said, complete with a lift of the bottle.

“Hello, handsome.”

John’s head spun at the greeting to see a woman in one of the many varieties of tiny lingerie, dark skin going on for miles, curls perfectly coiffed into bedhead, apple cheeks accented with pink glitter. She was just John’s type, of all the bad luck. 

Her voice had sounded close when he first heard it, and it was. She stood in between John and Sherlock, but it was Sherlock she was addressing, sliding her palm up his forearm.

Sherlock glanced down at her hand before looking her deadpan in the eye. “Gay.”

“I see. Do you want me to fetch another girl for you?”

Sherlock didn’t look at her again. He just slid his arm out from under her hand. “No.”

And here it came. Her brows knit in confusion for a moment before they shot to her hairline with an, “Oh.”

She slinked over to John, throwing a leg over his knees so she stood with a foot on either side, her g-string right at eye level. “You must be the boyfriend, then.”

John tried to relax, to play the part, or even just pretend this was a different night with a different person, but Sherlock’s presence loomed large in the periphery. “Something like that.”

She reached for his collar, rubbing it between her fingertips before skimming one down the line of buttons on his shirt. “It’s so sweet of him to give you this outlet.”

John chuckled, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t think sweet plays into it.”

She leaned in until she could whisper in his ear, breasts skimming his front. “Does he like to watch?”

John laughed--that was one way to put it--but it was cut short by Sherlock’s mouth on his other ear. “Her glitter is the wrong color on the wrong part of her body. Quit wasting time.”

John shivered at the overabundance of hot air on his sensitive ears and neck. “Sorry,” he said into the dancer’s ear as he fished out his wallet once more. “He got cold feet.”

He held out a five-pound note for her, but instead of taking it, she slipped her thumb between her hip and the string of her knickers and nodded to it. So, with a glance to Sherlock, who was eyeing them while pretending not to, John tucked the note into the proffered place.

Her g-string snapped against the note. “Let me know if he changes his mind.”

Multiply that by four, and that was the gist of their night. Though, as the evening went on, John felt less awkward. Whether that was from familiarity or beer, he couldn’t tell.

No, it was definitely the beer.

By the time they arrived back at Baker Street, John’s brain was humming. His ears felt stuffed with cotton, the heavy bass beat still thumping in his feet. He was exhausted. Body parts and tinkling laughter swam through his head. He’d never felt more oversexed in his life, and he had barely touched anyone.

Worst of all, they hadn’t found their suspect, so John had at least one more night of this.

No, that wasn’t true. Worst of all was that Sherlock’s hot breath on his ear was still sending tingles down his spine. Worst of all was the touch of Sherlock’s hand on his knee seared into his skin. He didn’t know whether to masturbate or scream, and the beer and tiredness like a giant muffler to the brain was not helping.

“You shouldn’t let me stop you from purchasing a personal dance.” Sherlock watched his own coat as he hung it up like it contained the secret of the sphinx.

John collapsed to the sofa, rubbing his fingers over his dry eyes. “What?”

“If you want to have a lap dance, you can have one.”

“How am I supposed to help you with the case if I’m off having my bits grinded on?” John’s brow furrowed. That came out sounding weird.

Sherlock shrugged, sitting in his own chair with much more couth than John could muster. “It would help us blend in.”

“You know what would help us blend in?” John paused even though he wasn’t actually waiting for an answer. “If you stopped dismissing every woman who came up to you with ‘gay.’”

“But I am gay.”

John’s head bobbed and rolled against the sofa arm until he could look at Sherlock. “Are you really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock exclaimed like it was the most obvious thing in the world before going to work on his cuffs. “I would have thought even you weren’t that unobservant.”

“What about Janine?”

Sherlock stopped with his cuffs. “I was seeing her to get in Magnussen’s office. Haven’t we already been over this?”

“Seven times a night at Baker Street.” John shrugged, throwing his arms wide.

“Don’t tell me you believed that rot.”

“I don’t know.” John yawned. “It’s not like we ever talk about this stuff.”

Sherlock huffed, standing. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He tossed the Union Jack pillow at John, hitting him square in the chest. “You should go to bed. We’ve miles to go yet.”

John slid the pillow under his head, nodding in the affirmative as he sank into it.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is our third club of the night, John. Why haven’t you purchased a lap dance?” Sherlock’s voice buzzed in John’s ear. The best and worst part of the noise in these clubs was that it forced him and Sherlock to speak directly in one another’s ears. They had touched more in the past two days than they had in possibly their entire friendship, and it was exhilarating. Intoxicating. Terrifying. He felt more aroused by these platonic touches than he had by any of the veritable buffet of beautiful women in the past seven clubs, and it only served to remind him how terribly fucked he really was.

Why did he have to be so terribly gone on this space alien of a man?

John leaned back to talk into Sherlock’s ear, tapping his knuckles on the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I’m spending enough on tips and drinks, thanks. I’d rather not go broke this weekend.”

“I’m sure Scotland Yard would reimburse you.”

John burst into laughter. “Not bloody likely.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Worth a try.” He settled back in his chair, but just as John was about to settle into his own, Sherlock surged forward. “It’s on me.”

Sherlock sat at the edge of his chair, scanning the room while John gaped. There was no way he’d heard Sherlock correctly. He was not going to buy John a lap dance. Why would he even want to?

John couldn’t even muster the words to protest until Sherlock waved a dancer over. “What? Sherlock, you are not buying me a lap dance.”

“Why not? It’s perfect.”

“How is it possibly perfect?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For blending in, John. If they believe I’m here to watch you with a woman, then it only makes sense for me to buy.”

John glanced to where Sherlock was looking. God, he could read John like a book. This woman was tall, slim, striking, and she moved with a grace and confidence unrivaled by anyone there. And somehow, that made it worse. It would have been one thing if Sherlock had chosen someone at random, but he had to go and choose John’s own personal kryptonite.

There was no way.

“Sherlock, don’t.”

“Think of the case, John.”

“Then you have the sodding lap dance.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh. “Please. Even I can’t keep up that facade. It’s much less conspicuous if you do it.”

“I don’t give a shit about being conspicuous,” John spat. “Do you think these women haven’t seen everything under the--”

John slumped violently to the back of his chair as the dancer came close enough to eavesdrop.

“Hello, lovely,” she said to Sherlock. “What can I do for you?”

Sherlock reached into his suitcoat pocket for his wallet. “I’d like to buy my friend a dance.”

“Oh,” she cooed. “Lucky boy. What’s the occasion?”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

Sherlock shrugged, ignoring John. “Friday night.”

She giggled, taking the money from Sherlock’s hand. “I like a man who knows how to party.”

She tucked the cash into a drawstring bag and stepped up to John’s chair. “So--”

“Sorry.” John held up a halting hand. “Thank you, but no. I’m leaving.”

John stood, nodding to the dancer as he squirmed his way around her. He spotted Sherlock standing in his periphery, but he ignored it. He was too angry to even look at Sherlock, let alone listen to any cajoling Sherlock might have to offer. And if Sherlock still had any hope of trying to blend in, as seemed so important to him, he had best leave it. One word from Sherlock’s mouth, and every patron in the place would have been able to hear John yelling over the music.

“No refunds,” was the last thing John heard before the music drowned them out.

By the time John was done at the coat check, Sherlock had caught up to him.

“John,” Sherlock said as John took his coat and left a tip.

Without looking at Sherlock, John threw on his coat. “Not now, Sherlock.”

He didn’t look back as he stomped his way out the door and onto the frigid street. Not a cab in sight. Perfect.

John stomped his feet to warm them up as he checked the time on his mobile. One a.m. Was it worth it to call a cab, or should he just walk to the tube? There wasn’t a station nearby, but there was nothing quite like a walk to work off some steam, especially when the cause of his distress was seconds from coming out the door.

John spun on his heel, but he barely got in a single stride before six feet of swishy coat got in his way. “Get out of the way.”

“No.” Sherlock raised his arm.

John glared up at him. He’d really like to punch Sherlock. He imagined his fist hitting that perfect nose, the blood gushing from it as Sherlock’s head snapped back. He even had a perfect visual for it thanks to the worst reunion in all of history.

“I swear to God, Sherlock. I will make you.”

Tyres squealed by John’s ear, making him flinch. A cab. A bloody cab. How did Sherlock always do that?

Sherlock stepped aside only to throw open the back door of the cab, nodding for John to get in.

John shook his head. “No.”

“I’m buying.”

A laugh burst from John’s mouth before he could stop it, but he quickly schooled his features back to something severe. “Too soon.”

“It’s freezing.”

John stared, his cold body at war with his red hot fury. He could feel the heat emanating from the open door of the cab, but if he walked fast enough and angry enough, he could keep himself warm until he got to the tube. Which would probably also be freezing.

“Are you getting in or aren’t you?” yelled the cabbie.

“Fine,” John muttered, bundling into the seat. Sherlock followed behind, shutting the door as he gave the cabbie their address.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, wrapping his coat around himself. “We can hit five tomorrow night.”

“Jesus,” John scoffed. “Am I meant to be the one apologizing?”

“You’re the one who stormed out.”

“Because you were being an insufferable twat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You should be a little more flexible.”

“I should be…” John muttered, shaking his head before sweeping it all away with his hand. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I said anything, but you can finish this case by yourself.”

“I don’t see what you have to be so upset about.”

“For fuck’s sake. I said no, Sherlock. You could have listened.”

“It was important for our cover.”

The cab pulled up to Baker Street.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about me breaking your cover next time.” John opened the cab door. “Pay the cabbie. I’m going to bed.”

***

John’s room was still dark when he woke up, only the light from a street lamp giving a grey cast to the room. He propped himself on his elbows, brows furrowed at the window. If the sun wasn’t coming up, why did he wake up?

“John,” came a low, quiet voice from a crack in John’s door.

John flinched. “Sherlock? What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock opened the door, leaning on the knob. “I wanted to apologize.”

John sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “It couldn’t wait until morning?”

“No.” Sherlock walked in and sat on the edge of John’s bed, fiddling with a fray in the stitching of the quilt. “I know I’m not the most… empathetic of people, but I was not as observant as I should have been.”

“So, what you mean to say is, you should have listened instead of ignoring my explicit request.” John raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Yes. What I mean to say is”--Sherlock nodded a few times--“that.”

“Thank you, then. Can I go back to sleep now?”

As he watched the thread between his fingers, Sherlock frowned, but after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, of course. Will you work the case with me?”

“All right.” John settled back into bed, rolling away from Sherlock. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hovered for a moment. John could hear him moving, the fabric of his dressing gown shuffling against the bedding, but he still sat on John’s bed.

This went on for a bit before John turned his head towards the ceiling, eyeing Sherlock in his peripheral vision. “Sher--”

Sherlock stood. “Good night, John.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock?” John pushed against the grain of his hair at the back of his head as he surveyed Sherlock’s map.

“Yes?” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

“You’ve mapped out all these clubs with male performers, but we’ve only visited ones with women.”

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, sliding his hands into his pockets as he stood over John’s shoulder. “Yes.”

John waited for Sherlock to elaborate, but no elaboration seemed forthcoming. “Why?”

“Balance of probability. The victim was married to a woman.”

John snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Sherlock stepped a little closer, brow furrowed. “Doesn’t it?”

“Just because a bloke married a woman, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like men.”

Continuing his study of the map, John spotted two blue pins closer to the man’s car than the clubs they visited the night before. Surely Sherlock had noticed, but he was also standing silent next to John.

John cleared his throat, gesturing towards the pins. “What about--”

Sherlock was staring at him.

“What?” John asked.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, extracting his hands from his pockets to prop them under his chin as he turned to the map. “You make an excellent point.” He pointed to the two pins John had noticed. “Perhaps we should visit these two tonight.”

With that, Sherlock disappeared back into the kitchen, garnering no discussion. A trip to a gay strip club with Sherlock. He wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than the past two nights. Either way, he was going to start drinking earlier tonight.

***

About an hour into their trip to the first club, with John nursing a decent buzz, they spotted the fuchsia glitter. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm when he saw it, and he could hear Sherlock gasp as the dancer took the stage in the silence between songs.

He was a bit shorter than Sherlock predicted, though John supposed that made sense if Sherlock’s predictions were based on the bodily proportions of a woman. But, there was nothing feminine about this bloke, even if he looked like a glitter bomb had gone off within inches of him. He looked strong and muscular, but not in the chiseled, cultivated way that most of the performers looked. He didn’t look like his muscles were built in the gym. They looked like they were built with manual labor. This had to be a moonlighting gig for him.

The dancer leapt onto the pole, legs twirling above him, and John grabbed Sherlock’s knee, murmuring into his ear, “What did the victim do for a living?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead reaching for his wallet as his eyes spun in time with the dancer’s legs.

John shook his knee. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock took a sharp breath through his nose, spinning so fast that their noses collided. “What?”

John palpated the bridge of his nose, though he could already tell nothing was wrong. “What did the victim do for a living?”

Though Sherlock faced John, his eyes still lingered on the stage. “A general contract”--he looked straight at John--“Oh!”

John sat back, feeling smug at his bit of deductive reasoning, though he was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t pointed it out first. That wasn’t like him.

Sherlock fished a note from his wallet and put it away before saying in John’s ear, “I’ll be right back.” He took off his suit coat. “Hold this.”

John watched him circle to the front of the stage, popping open a third shirt button as he went. He’d never seen Sherlock’s face like that. It was feral. He looked like a sleek jungle cat ready to pounce. He looked like he could eat that performer alive. It was quite the convincing act. If it was an act.

Sherlock waited at the end of the stage, much more patiently than John would have expected, until the glittered dancer’s feet alit upon the ground. The moment they landed, Sherlock was there, offering up a tip. As he slipped it into the waistband of glitter man’s teensy pants, Sherlock whispered something in his ear. The dancer pulled back enough to look in Sherlock’s face, and that was when Sherlock nodded in John’s direction.

Glitter man looked straight at John, wicked smile spreading, and John stiffened. He gripped the arms on his chair. What the hell was Sherlock doing? 

The performer nodded and, as Sherlock made his way back to his seat, resumed his dance.

John blinked as Sherlock slid up to him, groin just below eye level, and stood directly in front of his chair. And when John’s gaze finally met Sherlock’s, Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

“Well?”

John blinked some more. What was he asking for? “What?”

Sherlock reached out a hand, making two quick come hither motions. “The jacket, John.”

“Oh.” John’s gaze dropped to his own lap, where he’d apparently dropped Sherlock’s jacket. He handed it over. “Here.”

“What do you think?” Sherlock held the jacket at arm’s length. “On or off?”

John opened his mouth to answer, though nothing was prepared.

“On, I think.” He threw the jacket over his shoulders and smoothed it down. “How do I look?”

“Um. Fine.”

“Excellent.” He ruffled his fingers through his hair. “Come on, John.”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a collection of private rooms in the back.”

John swallowed as he stood. He wasn’t sure he liked the direction this was taking. “Why do we need to go into a private room?”

“I need to get a sample. Touching isn’t allowed out here.”

“And why do you need me?” Did Sherlock really expect John to watch him get a private dance? Or did he expect John to do it? After last night, certainly not, though John wouldn’t put it past him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tugging John’s elbow in the right direction. “Do you think I really want to be alone in a room with a murder suspect? What if he caught on?”

John huffed. There wasn’t much he could say to that. “All right. Lead the way.”

Sherlock nodded and did as John asked, taking him behind a heavy black curtain to a narrow hallway. It was lined on both sides with doors adorned with large, ornate numbers. The lighting was brighter than the rest of the club, though not abruptly so.

“We’re in room three,” Sherlock said.

Just as Sherlock was about to open the door, John grabbed his elbow, muttering, “What exactly is the plan here?”

“I used the cover story that came up naturally in the other clubs. My boyfriend”--he gestured to John--“likes to watch me with other people. So, he’ll give me a lap dance; I’ll take a sample of the glitter on his body, and we’ll leave.”

“We’re not going to question him?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There’s no point in that until we can verify he’s the correct person.”

John nodded. “All right.”

But it wasn’t really. Just the thought of another man writhing in Sherlock’s lap, touching him in a way that John was never allowed, made the green envy monster growl in John’s gut. It made him want to grab Sherlock and claim him.

John shook the thought away. “Why don’t you let me do it?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You’re not that good of an actor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please. You’ve made it quite clear that you’re not gay.”

John opened his mouth to protest. Sherlock of all people should know that there wasn’t just the one option. But, no words were to come out because the next thing John knew…

“Are you boys ready?” asked glitter man.

Sherlock nodded and disappeared into the room. The dancer followed after, and John brought up the rear, shutting the door behind him before leaning up against the wall next to it. God, this was awkward.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Jack,” he said as he fiddled with the sound system. “ But you can call me anything you want.”

Sherlock settled into a plush, armless chair, posture slouched and legs wide. He looked totally at ease, watching Jack with avid interest. “Jack is fine.”

Jack cued up a song, quiet and sultry with a driving bass beat that John could feel in his chest despite the low volume. Or perhaps that was just his heartbeat kicking up from the sheer stress of trying to keep it together. Because Sherlock still watched Jack like a starving man might view an all-you-can-eat buffet.

It was an act, John told himself. It was all an act. Sherlock had to allay suspicion, and being his usual aloof self in this situation would be tantamount to wearing a giant flashing sign. Still…

Jack didn’t waste any time. Once he was satisfied with the music, he strode over, threw one leg over both of Sherlock’s, and plopped right down in his lap. His hips rocked like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, slow and even and perfectly timed with the song. He braced himself on the back of Sherlock’s chair, throwing the muscles of his arms into sharp relief. He was a powerhouse of sensual energy, and Sherlock was eating it up.

Or, John reminded himself, he only seemed to be. The dark hooded eyes and bitten lips were just a part of the act. And the fingers slowly climbing Jack’s sides were just Sherlock’s attempt to gather a sample of the glitter that adorned Jack’s body. The little huffs of breath. The tension in his thighs. The tiny twitches and circles of his hips. They were all calculated to allay suspicion.

It didn’t matter that Jack was rolling his body against Sherlock’s, their groins meeting with soft whumps in time with the bass beat. It didn’t matter when Sherlock’s careful touches against Jack’s side grew to gripping presses on his back and thighs.

It was fine. It was all fine. The shade of Jack’s glitter wasn’t filling John’s entire field of vision. His entire body wasn’t clenched like a fist. And he certainly wasn’t picturing himself throwing Jack across the room and then bending Sherlock over that chair.

John closed his eyes, counted to five as he breathed in, five as he breathed out. And, it might have worked. He might have opened his eyes after a few breaths to find himself calm and collected. His simultaneous desires to hurt Jack and fuck Sherlock might have subsided, at least enough to get them out of the club without incident.

But, Sherlock had to go and groan. He had to grunt and moan, “Oh, God.”

John’s eyes flew open, his muscles spasming, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. Sherlock didn’t do this. Sherlock wasn’t interested in sex, but there he was, head thrown back, spine arched, and moaning. He had his samples by now. There was no need for this, but there he was, and John saw red. If this were a film, the camera would be on an extreme close up of John’s eyes as the _Ironside_ theme song played.

If asked later what he was thinking, John would have no answer, but despite that, his body moved. He marched across the room and hauled Sherlock out of his seat. He didn’t even know what happened to Jack, whether he got up or simply got spilled onto the floor. It didn’t matter.

“We’re leaving,” John said, brooking no argument, and to his credit, Sherlock didn’t.

That was, until they got into the hall. “What are you doing, Jo--”

John pushed Sherlock against the wall, making his mouth pop open in a gasp. John held him there, fist tight in his lapels, but Sherlock made no attempt to escape or fight him off. So, John pressed the full length of his body to Sherlock’s, heart rate surging at the press of Sherlock’s erection on John’s hip.

“What was that about? Hmm?”

Sherlock panted, his eyes fixed on John’s mouth.

“Did you like it, having that bloke all over you?” John circled his hip against Sherlock’s groin to punctuate his sentence.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. His face exuded glibness, but his body quivered. “Did you?”

John yanked at Sherlock’s lapels, forcing him to lean in John’s space. Angry lust pulsed through John’s bloodstream like heroin, driving him to action he never would have considered, and he found himself growling against Sherlock’s mouth, “Don’t change the subject.”

“Joh--”

John couldn’t tell who had initiated it, but before Sherlock could get John’s name out of his mouth, their faces were smashed together. There was nothing suave or coordinated about the kiss. It was more like trying to crawl into each other’s skin than anything else, the desperate press of bodies separated for too long. Even the thin layers of cloth between them felt like miles. John shoved aside Sherlock’s jacket to fist his fingers in the back of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him closer until neither could take a proper breath from the press of the other’s chest.

Sherlock groaned, his fingers spearing through John’s hair before scrabbling down his back to jerk at the tails of John’s shirt, get his fingers underneath to leave bruising fingerprints on the small of John’s back. His hips were like waves on the ocean, thrusts rolling through his entire body and making both of them shudder.

“Do you like being watched?” John nipped at Sherlock’s jaw as he cupped Sherlock’s bulge through his trousers. “I should make you come right here, where anyone could walk in.”

Sherlock’s head thumped against the wall. His eyes slammed shut. “Hypocrite.”

John flinched, eyebrows lifting to the rafters. “Sorry?”

“Didn’t we have a conversation just last night about public sexual favors?”

John laughed. “Leave it to you to miss the point yet again.” He leaned back enough to grasp Sherlock’s belt buckle and work it loose. “Tell me no, and I’ll stop.”

Staring up into Sherlock’s eyes, John eased notch from prong, slid the buckle down the length of leather. Sherlock met his gaze, calm and even, though color flared on his cheeks, and John let the ends of the belt hang loose over Sherlock’s thighs. The clatter of the belt was deafening over the muffled club music. Monumental.

Finally, John reached for Sherlock’s trouser button, but Sherlock’s hands clasped over his. “Wait.”

John flinched. “What?”

“Not here. Home.”

“Oh God, yes.” Stepping back, John tucked his fingers into the front of Sherlock’s trousers and tugged, urging Sherlock to follow along.

Sherlock followed like an obedient puppy, keeping less than a stride behind John, his breath hot in John’s ear. He leaned into John’s body at the coat check, nuzzling against John’s earlobe, and it was all John could do not to reach behind him to grip Sherlock’s hips or slip a hand into Sherlock’s trousers or spin around sink his teeth into Sherlock’s neck. He settled for tipping his head back to capture Sherlock’s lips and raking his nails over the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. So they remained until the polite throat clearing nearby turned pointed.

Jumping, John spun to face the bloke at the coat check, his and Sherlock’s lips parting with a smack. “Right. Sorry. Coats.”

As John took the coats and left a tip, Sherlock chuckled in his ear, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. “Don’t be embarrassed John. Do you think he hasn’t seen everything under the sun?”

John huffed a laugh and pushed off Sherlock as he passed back Sherlock’s coat. Throwing his own over his shoulder, he said, “Oh, so you were listening.”

“I always listen to you, John.” Sherlock strode past him, swinging open the door and holding it.

John walked through. “Not bloody likely.”

Sherlock brushed past again on the way to the kerb, murmuring meaningfully. “Always.”

“What does that mean?”

As he raised his hand to hail a cab, Sherlock shrugged. “You have glitter in your hair.”

“Wha--” John combed his fingers through his hair, and they came away flecked with fuchsia. “Son of a…”


	5. Chapter 5

Thank goodness traffic is light late at night because if John had been made to wait through daytime London traffic, he would have lost his mind. He was already a mess of tension as it was. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s hands and mouth and, hell, the rest of him. Sherlock’s hands rested on the insides of his thighs, tapping a rapid tattoo against his trousers, and it was all John could do not to replace those hands with his own. But, he knew the second he touched Sherlock, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and that could be trouble in a cab.

So, he stared out the window, watching the buildings go by as his heel bounced on the floor. God, this was really happening. He and Sherlock were heading back to Baker Street to shag. Or something. Who knew what Sherlock really wanted? For all John knew, Sherlock’s promise of ‘not here’ had been simply a stall tactic, a way to let John down without making a scene, to get them out without blowing their cover. And now that the thought had occurred, John could think about nothing else.

Could he have gotten so close only to be shut down? And what would that mean for their friendship? God, John could curse this whole case. If it weren’t for the past three sexually charged days or the alcohol required to get through them, John wouldn’t have made a move. He wouldn’t have felt like every casual touch between them since Thursday night had enough electricity to send them back in time in a DeLorean. And he certainly wouldn’t have dumped an innocent bystander on the floor.

He shouldn’t have worried, though, because as they neared Baker Street, Sherlock’s fingers curled over the top of John’s thigh, nails digging into the inseam. John took a sharp breath through his nose and glanced over at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching his own hand clench and release over John’s leg, his breath quick, his face flushed.

Not a stall tactic, then.

Once they pulled up to their front door, Sherlock lobbed cash at the cabbie and dragged John out of the cab, up the front steps, and through the door. And the second they were inside, Sherlock pounced. He crowded John into the wall, bodies pressed flush before the door had even closed behind them. All mouth and hands, he pushed at the shoulders of John’s coat, growling in frustration as the press of the wall on John’s back halted its progress. So, he yanked John’s hips forward and shoved the coat down his arms, letting it fall to a heap on the floor.

As Sherlock crowded into him once again, John’s heels hit the bundle of his coat, and he chuckled. “Eager, are we?”

Sherlock stooped to John’s neck, lips and tongue messy and desperate on sensitive skin, sending shivers down John’s spine. But what really got John’s attention were the words murmured there. “Couldn’t give you time to go changing your mind.”

“Oh,” John guffawed. “Like that’s going to happen.”

Sherlock nosed at John’s jaw. “Your stag night. ‘I don’t mind.’”

John tilted his head at Sherlock’s insistence. “We had a client.”

Sherlock hummed into John’s pulse point, sending shivers down his spine. “And you were getting married.”

“Yeah.” John laughed. “There was that.”

The sounds of their mingled breaths filled John’s senses like treacle, coating his limbs and making time seem to slow as Sherlock’s fingers carded through his hair. He could see the confetti gleam of the glitter sloughing off Sherlock’s fingers, and although he knew it would never come out of his hair, it gave their encounter a feeling of magic. Like they had been transported into their own world where all that existed were their bodies, their minds, their shared pleasure.

John gripped the back of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. As his fingers insinuated themselves under the hem, skating up Sherlock’s clothed arse on their way to bare skin, Sherlock chuckled. John froze, brows knitting.

“So you admit it, then,” Sherlock murmured, hooded eyes staring down at John.

John winced, fingers flexing against Sherlock’s back. “What?”

“You wanted to have sex with me on your stag night.”

“To be fair”--John splayed his fingers over Sherlock’s hips, tucking them under the waistband of his trousers--“I wanted you long before then.”

Sherlock hummed. “But you saw your chance disappearing, thought you’d use the time alone and the lowered inhibitions to take your chance. If I said no, there was always alcohol to mitigate the consequences.”

“How could you possibly--”

“Because I had the same plan.”

Sherlock’s words hit him like a bucket of water, but instead of sending a chill down his spine, they sent a rush of arousal so intense it left him lightheaded.

“Oh, God,” John groaned. Fingers digging into Sherlock’s arse, he yanked Sherlock towards him as he surged upwards to capture Sherlock’s mouth. All that wasted time. Later, he might lament it, but in that moment, all he wanted to do was make up for it, touch and taste Sherlock in every place and every way he’d ever imagined, watch Sherlock catalogue John’s body, worship that gorgeous arse.

John set to do just that, loosening the fastenings of Sherlock’s trousers so he could ease his hands down the back, get his hands on the bare skin he found there. He always suspected the skin would be soft, supple, and it did not disappoint.

“Your arse should be bloody illegal, you know that?”

Sherlock pressed his hips back into John’s touch, his forehead propped on John’s shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Oh yeah.” John pushed Sherlock’s trousers down his hips. “I’m going to write every member of Parliament about it. No more strutting around Buckingham Palace in a sheet for you.”

Sherlock chuckled, but then he dug his fingers into John’s waist. “Shut up and take me upstairs before Mrs. Hudson wakes up.”

John hiked up Sherlock’s trousers enough so the wouldn’t impede movement. “After you.”

Instead of attacking Sherlock the moment they reached the top of the stairs, John gave him a moment to hang up his coat and toe off his shoes. Meanwhile, John flopped onto the couch, laying his head on the armrest as he kicked off his own shoes and went to work on his shirt buttons. He tugged the tails of his checked shirt from his jeans to reveal the threadbare tee underneath and, just as Sherlock turned around, eased the end of his belt from the buckle.

Sherlock stood as still as a marble statue, and just as beautiful, blinking in the general direction of John’s thighs. He seemed trapped by a spell, frozen in time, but as John reached for the top button of his jeans, the spell was broken.

Sherlock strode forward, one knee sliding over the couch cushion to insinuate itself between John’s legs, palms pressing them apart as they slid up John’s thighs. He reached for John’s button then, pushing John’s hands aside like they were completely inconsequential. Sherlock had his eyes on the prize, and nothing would deter him. Even the finger John twined into a single curl that had fallen into his forehead didn’t register on Sherlock’s radar. He eased down John’s zip and worked his jeans and pants down his hips with a single-minded focus.

Having that kind of focus on himself--no, on his cock, his groin--made John shiver, and once his erection sprang free, Sherlock looked like the cat who got the cream. He sat on the sofa and sank down, pressing his nose to John’s bollocks and just breathing. Cool breath in, hot breath out, again and again until finally John felt the wet press of a tongue. But then, it was gone again. Sherlock shifted, paused, and licked again in a different spot.

He licked John like a dripping ice cream cone, quick swipes of the tongue that were never in the same place twice. It was like Sherlock was mapping his cock, and knowing Sherlock, that was probably exactly what he was doing. It was odd, very odd, but it was also brilliant. The surprise of it and the contrast--hot strokes of Sherlock’s tongue and cooling saliva--left John squirming, desperate for enveloping heat. Even as Sherlock wrapped his index finger over the base of John’s cock to hold it steady, even as Sherlock’s mercurial eyes zeroed in on his glans, even as Sherlock licked his own lips instead of an as yet unexplored part of John’s penis, John’s hips writhed against the sofa, his legs restless, his voice harsh and desperate.

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, please--”

John’s plea broke off in something between a groan and a sigh, his body sinking into the cushions as he reveled in the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. If he had expected something resembling a normal blow job after that series of kitten licks, he would have been sorely mistaken. At first Sherlock held John in his mouth, constant, static pressure between tongue and palate. But after a moment, John realized it wasn’t so static after all. Sherlock was shifting how tightly he held John in his mouth. Probably reading how much pressure to use based on the bloodflow to John’s cock or something.

John really thought this shouldn’t be as arousing as it was. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to being held still in someone’s mouth. Most people either teased a bit or jumped right in, and he was fairly certain no one had ever done _this_ before. Sherlock was cataloging John, storing his cock and sexual response away for future use, and it made John ache with lust. It made him tremble, and when Sherlock finally sucked and swept his tongue up the underside of John’s cock, he levitated. Perhaps literally. He couldn’t tell.

Sherlock continued his slow bob up and down like a buoy in calm seas, and John’s balls continued their slow climb to John’s groin. Because now Sherlock was trying out techniques with his tongue--slow drags with the flat of it, long twirls with the tip, probing, laving, teasing. The slow torture was killing John, sending his fists into his hair and the small of his back to the air. He felt at the edge of orgasm already, could feel the spring winding up, ready to snap, but he couldn’t see how he would ever make it over the edge at this pace.

“Sherlock, I’m close.”

And just like that, Sherlock’s mouth was gone, the creak and shift of the cushion indicating that he had gotten up. As his rebounding cock left a wet stamp on his abdomen, John’s eyes flew open, hand gripping the back of the sofa to pull himself up.

“Where did you… Oh, God. Sherlock.”

Sherlock was at John’s feet, facing away as he shucked trousers and pants in one fell swoop. The swell of his arse peeked out from his shirttail like a shy fawn, and John could think of nothing he wanted more than to bite it. Perhaps not best to jump right into that, though, so he leaned forward, hands reaching, ready to slip up outer thighs and caress buttocks.

But it was not to be, for the moment Sherlock’s feet escaped their wool and cotton prisons, he spun around and resumed his place between John’s legs. Only this time, John was sitting up, and it only took a bit of craning and a bit of dragging Sherlock by the hair on his nape to get their lips to meet.

The kiss certainly didn’t lack heat or fervency, but it wasn’t the frenzy of lips and teeth they’d had in the club. God, was John so close to the verge of orgasm and this was only the second kiss they shared? Of course, nothing went the way it was expected with Sherlock. This whole encounter had been one surprise after another. Hell, even dragging Sherlock into the hall had surprised him.

The only thing that hadn’t been a surprise was the feel of Sherlock’s lips against his. They were soft and plush and sensitive, quickly pinkening under the weight of their kisses. John knew they would be, wondered about it often enough, watched the marks left behind after Sherlock bit them in concentration.

John dragged Sherlock down before breaking the kiss to run his index finger over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I love your mouth. I’ve fantasized about it, you know?”

“Have you?”

John nodded, tongue tracing the same path on his own lips as his finger on Sherlock’s. “All the time. I’d like to live in that mouth.”

“How Roald Dahl of you.” He rolled his eyes but still captured John’s finger between his teeth and sucked it deep into his mouth.

“How do you know Roald Dahl?”

Sherlock let go of John’s finger with a huff. “We were all children once. I quite liked _Matilda_.”

John pushed his hands into Sherlock’s hair. “A child who’s smarter than everyone around her? I can see why you enjoyed it.”

“Do you really want to talk about children’s books right now?” Sherlock shifted against John, and John’s cock gave him a fervent reminder that it did not like being ignored.

“God no.” John pulled Sherlock back to his mouth, hips canting against Sherlock’s weight.

His bloody trousers. He could feel Sherlock’s thighs rubbing against them, and although the slide of their cocks against one another was very nice, he would have rather had much more skin touching. He wanted thighs rubbing thighs. He wanted to feel the hair on Sherlock’s calves catch with his own when he hooked his legs around. So, he broke off the kiss.

“Just a--” John shuffled under Sherlock and reached for his own hip, hoping to get his clothes off without tossing Sherlock on the floor. But then, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around both of them, and all other thought flew out the window. Just like that, John was back at the verge, bucking into Sherlock’s hand as he chased orgasm. He barely even heard Sherlock’s next words, but the moment they registered, oh God.

“Leave them,” Sherlock said, meeting John thrust for thrust. His body curled over John’s as his free hand pushed up John’s t-shirt until his nipples were exposed.

“Sherlock,” John panted and chanted as Sherlock licked his lips, face displaying the same laser focus he’d given John’s cock earlier, and John felt his cock pulse. He was close, so close, and he wanted it. It hadn’t taken long, but it had taken years, and John would be damned if he were going to wait one more second. Just a few more--

“Oh,” John huffed when he felt Sherlock’s tongue probe at his left nipple, and that was it. John spilled over Sherlock’s cock, his hand, his belly, and it felt like coming home. It felt like all the pieces in his life had snapped into place, like he’d been viewing the world just a few degrees askew, but now everything was plumb.

John sighed as the last of the orgasm faded and looked down at Sherlock. His head was pressed to John’s chest, his arm working frantically.

“Come here.” John slid his hands under Sherlock’s arms, nudging him up. “Straddle my chest.”

Sherlock’s arm stilled. His head flew up on a sharp intake of breath. “What?”

“Straddle my chest.”

“Why?”

John couldn’t help it. He giggled. He didn’t know whether to put it down to Sherlock usual cluelessness on matters he didn’t deem worthy or a new-found sexual stupor, but either way, the confusion at John’s request was just too damn endearing.

John gestured him up. “I don’t want to move, but I would like your cock in my mouth. How’s that?”

Sherlock didn’t answer by way of words so much as a scramble up John’s body and, once he was in place, a long groan as he watched his cock hover near John’s mouth. His cock was gorgeous, flushed nearly purple as it jutted from between the tails of Sherlock’s shirt. John moved to push them aside, but Sherlock beat him to it, yanking the shirt up his body and gathering the tails in his fist, which sent a fresh sprinkling of glitter down on John.

“God,” John laughed. “You are covered in glitter.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “I’d happily share.”

“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.”

“Best get to it, then.”

John’s jaw dropped in mock shock. “Are you threatening me?”

“I never threaten.”

Shaking his head, John steadied Sherlock’s cock in the circle of his fingers. “Naughty man.”

With that, John raised his head and let Sherlock’s glans slip past his lips. He could feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on him, prickling the hairs on his crown, and goosebumps spread over his skin in a cascade. He ran his tongue over the smooth skin of Sherlock’s shaft, the bumps of his frenulum, swirling over the plump, velvety head to collect a bit of salty precome. He moaned at the taste. There was only one other man that John had known well enough to do this with sans condom, so the feel of the viscous liquid on his tongue felt unbearably intimate. He wanted to swallow Sherlock whole and have him live in John’s skin, or vice versa.

He looked up and was hooked in Sherlock’s gaze. It was awestruck, eyes dark, mouth open, and when John pulled on his hips, he gasped.

“John,” he whispered as he gave into John’s will, rocking his hips, his cock sliding slowly in and out of John’s mouth, dragging on his lips. The muscles of Sherlock’s arse rippled under his hands. Sherlock’s fist clenched and released in his own shirt as the other hand steadied him on the arm of the sofa. His thighs trembled, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

 _Oh, yes_ , John thought. _Here it comes._

Sherlock was surprisingly quiet, curling in on himself as orgasm crept up on him. The trembling spread from his thighs to the arm holding him up, to the arm holding his shirt, and finally to his abdominals. John would love to watch those muscles sliding under Sherlock’s skin, but not this time. For their first shared orgasms, he wanted to see Sherlock’s face. But, when he looked up, Sherlock’s face was tucked into his shoulder.

John let Sherlock’s cock slip from his mouth. “Look at me.”

He went straight back to it as Sherlock’s gaze honed in on him, and one hard suck later, Sherlock was coming. His lips pressed together and breath rushed from his nose as he spilled into John’s mouth. His eyes wrenched shut, and he remained silent through the orgasm until, near the end, his mouth popped open on a single, quiet syllable.

“John.”

Sherlock didn’t so much collapse as tumble like a marionette until he could lie on top of John, his head tucked between John’s shoulder and neck. He hummed, placing a chaste kiss on John’s throat.

John trailed his fingers up Sherlock’s bicep. “If I had known getting a little rough with you would get you in bed, I would have done it ages ago.”

Sherlock chuckled, the low rumble of it resonating through John’s body.

“What?”

“You didn’t get me into bed, John. I got you into bed.”

John craned his neck to get a better look at Sherlock’s face. “What are you on about?”

“Do you really think I needed to purchase a lap dance and have you there to get a glitter sample?”

“If I find out this case was a ruse--”

“Don’t be silly, John.” Sherlock waved him away. “But thanks to some evidence you supplied this week, I found it provided a unique opportunity.”

John thought he should feel offended at being manipulated, but all he could do was laugh. “You berk.”

“Your berk.” Sherlock’s head popped up, and he studied John’s face. “Right?”

A fond smile tugged at John. “Yeah.” 


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you want to know the solution to the case.

John snapped awake. “What about the case?”

Sherlock lifted his head from John’s chest, blinking blearily. “Hmm?”

“Did Jack do it?”

“Oh.” Sherlock popped up and pawed for something on the bedside table.

John pushed up onto his elbows. “What are you doing?”

When Sherlock spun around, he already had his mobile to his ear. “The wife did it.”

Lestrade’s tinny voice did its best to make its way out of the speaker for a brief moment before Sherlock cut it off and settled himself back into the nook under John’s arm.

“It wasn’t the stripper?” John asked.

Sherlock yawned. “No. He doesn’t work Wednesdays. And he’s not an idiot.”

“High praise. Even I couldn’t earn that.”

“You’re not an idiot, John.”

John buried his fingers in Sherlock’s tangled curls. “Doesn’t count. It’s like saying I love you during sex.”

“Duly noted. I won’t say it during sex.”

John smiled, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “So why does not working Wednesday exonerate him?”

Sherlock huffed dramatically. “It eliminates crime of passion. He would have no reason to wear the glitter and leave such obvious evidence behind if he wasn’t working. Therefore, the glitter must have been planted. Additionally, to successfully poison someone requires intimate knowledge of that person. If you want to do it right. Her DNA in the car wouldn’t have pointed a finger at her, and he’d trust her enough to take whatever food or drink she gave him--always a poor choice when one is cheating. The wife is the only logical suspect with motive and opportunity. She killed her husband and tried to pin it on the man he was having an affair with.”

“Amazing.”

“Are you aware you say that out loud?”

A chuckle bubbled up from John’s belly, making his heart swell. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/post/144967821219/cakepopsforeveryone-did-you-kno-glitter-is).
> 
> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta. Sorry if this spams anybody's subscriptions because it's five chapters, and I'm posting them all tonight.


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